


He was never meant for martyrdom. He wanted peace; let him have peace. Let him rot, there with the dead.

by StarryNightFire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:21:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24104326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarryNightFire/pseuds/StarryNightFire
Summary: The world does not know who Mycroft Holmes is, and he prefers it that way. Only a limited number of people was granted with the privilege of knowing him.  And I wonder, what happened to those people when he died?***In which Mycroft Holmes is piece of puzzle in the most important jigsaw game. And when that piece is gone, the picture will never be the same if not slowly falling apart.
Relationships: Anthea & Mycroft Holmes, Mycroft Holmes & John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	He was never meant for martyrdom. He wanted peace; let him have peace. Let him rot, there with the dead.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I always think that people don't appreciate Mycroft Holmes enough nor do they realise the importance of his role in Sherlock's life and Britain in a whole. I said Mycroft deserves better but here I am, giving you some really heavy angst. Enjoy!

**He was never meant for martyrdom. He wanted peace; let him have peace. Let him rot, there with the dead.**

**-StarryNightFire-**

_Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, they belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (except for Anthea) and are adopted babies of Moffat and Gatiss (including Anthea)._

1\. John Watson 

To be shot by a lowlife terrorist on that lonesome Christmas day was just downright disappointing for Mycroft Holmes. Or at least, that’s what John Watson thinks the older Holmes would’ve said.

The man has survived poisonous newspaper delivered to Diogenes club, grenade flying into his office and he hardly even blink when under the point-blank range of his little brother’s gun. So yes, nobody can blame John Watson for refusing the idea of Mycroft Holmes passing so suddenly. It would sound more convincing that Mycroft Holmes planned his own death rather than some imprudent sniper.

It wasn’t until he saw the silent shake of Anthea’s shoulder in front of a nameless tombstone and the abandoned flat of his best friend, did the shock fully hit him. He sank in his cold armchair, closing his fist tight, trying to hold on to the last memory of Mycroft Holmes.

*

_“Diabetes, brother mine. Although, I wouldn’t cross heart attack out of the list.” Mycroft flash a tight grin, and it disappeared as fast as when it came. The British government picked up the cup of tea from his own vintage tea set and take a generous gulp, ignoring the annoying pluck of Sherlock’s violin string. “19 years and 7 months, I would say. Rough estimation of course, but always accurate, wouldn’t you agree?”_

_“Why so generous, Mycroft? With that weight of yours, I would minus 3 to 4 years.” Sherlock scoffed. His usual method wouldn’t shoo the stubborn Mycroft out. “Diet not working?” The detective lowered his violin and flashed a triumph smile at his brother’s icy glare. He has plenty other ways._

_“Holmes. It’s too early for this.” John muttered under his breath, what on Earth would the two brothers discussed their death plan for? They continue to bicker despite his comment which he was sure they heard. He sighed heavily when the answer came to him. “So, what case did you bring this time that Sherlock outrageously_ _decline?”_

_“You know, I would have considered the offer if he didn’t bring it here in the morning.” And with that, the detective curled himself in a ball and sulked silently. They paid him no attention; it was just Sherlock being himself._

_“No, you wouldn’t.” Mycroft replied lackadaisically before turning his attention on John Watson._

*

‘Maybe I should’ve let them bicker a little bit longer.’ He thought bitterly as he stared in the empty armchair of his companion. ‘If I would just intervene a little bit later.’ He rubbed his eyes tiredly. The empty presence of both geniuses really putting him on his nerves.

He tried calling Sherlock one more time.

Nobody picks up.

2\. Sherlock Holmes 

24 hours since the last time he saw John Watson. 

Sherlock’s head hurt.

He should’ve taken more, whatever this is, it’s not making his mind go blissfully blank. He didn’t even need to write a list. It makes him feel like a rebel. He doesn’t care.

**All lives end.**

8 hours since John Watson’s last text message. 

‘You didn’t attend the funeral’ it said.

‘Why would I?’ He texted back, one hand rummaging through the old files he stored in his secret den. Lights still penetrate through the torn blanket he draped over the broken window, and his body is aching, his arm is itching again.

*

_“Why won’t you be at my funeral?” Sherlock asked, like any petulant child would’ve done, with his feet purposely rested on Mycroft’s expensive oak desk._

_“Neither is our parents. They would never leave me alone if they thought you die under my surveillance.” Mycroft grunted, while also scowling at Sherlock like any irritable brother._

_“Yeah but why won’t you?” Sherlock used to ask Mycroft in this tone before, lots of inquisitiveness, a hint of sentiment and a pinch of brotherly loathing. And utter helplessness._

_Sherlock asked Mycroft when his favourite dog died at the age of 8, he asked Mycroft when his older brother didn’t come home for Christmas from Oxford at the age of 11 and he asked Mycroft when Sherlock wanted to get rid of Moriarty that afternoon. Frustrating questions that require utmost honesty._

_Mycroft blinked at Sherlock, once out of surprise, twice out of amusement, then the third time, he reverted back to his blank expression. But as always, in the end, he gave in, at least a hint of something for Sherlock to hold onto._

_“Why would I? I won’t be there for your real funeral anyway.” Mycroft smirked with eyes boring in Sherlock. There was no witty remark that followed, and Sherlock bit back his ‘diabetes, how boring’ comment. When there was no audience for the Holmes’ to perform, they became a fleeting ghost of their former infuriating, egoistical self. They were as peaceful as the flickering firelight inside Mycroft’s reading room. Mummy would be proud._

_“You’re not dying before me, brother mine.” The older brother said after a long while. And Mycroft even gave him that look, the stern eyes that said - ‘there will be no argument’. It was Sherlock’s turn to blink rapidly._

_“Challenge accepted.” Sherlock shot back, rightfully earning an eye-roll from Mycroft. ‘There’s always room for argument’ he thought, and plus, Sherlock Holmes always have the last word._

*

‘Where are you?’

‘Sherlock, call me back.’

‘Call me, please.’

 **All hearts are broken.**

Sherlock didn’t text back.

16 hours since John Watson’s last phone call. 

“Get out of this disgusting hole, Sherlock.” Mycroft has on his normal sumptuous three-piece suit and his umbrella tapping relentlessly against the old creaking floor.

“It’s my den. Bring your fat body to the window, the light is blinding me.” Sherlock pull himself up into a half lounging half sitting position and glance at his brother from head to toe. Mycroft’s long coat is missing, despite the chilling winter air clinging to Sherlock baggy clothes. Mycroft looks thin, and that’s coming from the haggard Sherlock.

“Watch your manner. Don’t make me order you.” Mycroft said firmly first, then tilt his head challengingly like everybody would squirm under his order. They would, but Sherlock wouldn’t. Sherlock gazes back to Mycroft, his eyes are blue, but greyer than Sherlock, clearer. But it was the wallpaper behind Mycroft that got attention. They’re back to 221B Baker Street.

“Why are you here?” His words slur from tiredness ‘Why am I here’ Sherlock thought, his balms pressing tightly against his eyelids. He doesn’t want to be here.

“Get out, Sherlock.” Mycroft voice swims inside his head, and when Sherlock lets his hands fall, Pall Mall apartment appear. But it was Moriarty that greeted him, a grin that is unsettling.

“No.” His word lacks its firmness and his body shiver. He turns on his stomach and pressed his forehead against the dirty sofa he’s on. 

“Get out, Sherlock.” It’s ‘The Woman’ voice, no doubt. The room spin like a tornado, and gravity trap him onto the floor. The mind is playing its trick, Sherlock isn’t dumb. He’s just not smart enough to get out. Only Mycroft’s smart enough. Mycroft’s always smart enough.

He whimpers, and the sound reverberate around the room, not around the enormous bookshelves Mycroft has in his house, but Serbia. Cold and brutal Serbia, he could feel the red mark making its way back to his back. Sherlock’s body itch, the air cool on his forehead, but he’s boiling.

“Leave me alone.” He murmurs, his mouth taste sour from vomits of yesterday. He saw Eurus then, crouching next to him. And he reached out for her, because she’s his sister. She can help him, like he did for her. But she just smiles, and Mycroft was behind her, smiling as well. Only there’s a bullet hole in his head, and blood oozing out, reddening his forever white shirt.

And they stayed there, until Sherlock couldn’t see them anymore. Until hot tears run down his cheek and his body shake, blurring away the sight of Mycroft. He drifts into unconsciousness with the last image of Mycroft Holmes, with his brain too damaged for Science society, and his hands too cold for Sherlock to hold. 

**Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.**

72 hours since Mycroft’s death. 

Maps and newspaper, pictures and scribble of thoughts, all connected by red strings, hanging on the wretched wall of his secret retreat. Wiggins passed out next to his feet, his mouth drooling onto the mattress. Sherlock needed companion and Wiggins was the skull.

The after effect of drugs took Sherlock almost a full day for recovery. Almost thought he has an overdose, with all that images that play in his head. He crossed his arm and sighs heavily. The clues are there, he just didn’t know where to start, and for the first time in his life, he’s nervous of what’s out there. There’s no secret service behind his back, nobody to tolerate his mistakes. He felt empty, with the security and constant nagging gone from his trivial life. 

“Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.” He turns to Wiggins and wait for smart input, then remembers that the kid is only a skull.

**Obviously, so the balance of probability is?**

Sherlock suddenly laugh, sharp and rigid, loud enough to wake Wiggins from his slumber. But Sherlock was already out of the door with this coat flapping around. Wiggins glaze tiredly at the board, with the name ‘Sebastian Moron’ scrawl with black marker with no image. A picture of a young fat man and a half of an unruly black curls head glue close to the name. 

3\. Anthea 

_“Why can’t I accompany you on this mission, Sir?” Anthea sounded like a wounded puppy, being denied for field work. It’s never Mr Holmes interest to run around doing espionage, that was her specialty. She maintained her blank face however and continued with her task of typing furiously on the Blackberry with one hand. It was his sharp chuckle that pulled her attention back to her boss._

_“Sir?”_

_“If both of us go, the PM wouldn’t stand a chance of survival.” He adjusted his tie and smirked in the mirror, whether to her or his reflection, she can no longer remember._

_Undercover Mycroft Holmes meant negotiation with other countries through phone are limited, plus the job of snapping sense into their Prime Minister are now either Anthea or Lady Smallwood’s job. And considered that Lady Smallwood was busy with the missiles from Southeast Asia, it was all her responsibilities._

_She glanced at the file on the table and tighten her grip on Mycroft’s favourite umbrella._

_“Don’t give me that look, Andrea. I wasn’t asking you to carry the whole England while I’m gone. You could never even if you try.” He shook his head, but the way his eyes held hers, the words didn’t sound as menacing. It never did._

_“Just hold the fort for a while.” And with a gentle tuck for his umbrella, he went out of the room smoothly without even a glance._

_*_

The Siberia case took 4 days, which was one week earlier than the plan. Fortunately, she retrieved Sherlock’s coat just in time.

“How long do I have to hold the fort now?” Her voice rings in the invariably silence. It’s strange to be talking out loud in this large headquarters alone, and it feels even weirder sitting in his leather chair. She twirled the black umbrella that her boss left behind, and the simple action seems utterly wrong too. She wished she could trust Sherlock with Mycroft’s umbrella. She wished she knows where he is. 

“3 more minutes, ma’am.” Her PA, a blond curly hair man with fitted blazer stand by the door. She has a PA now, how things have change.

“Thank you. No interruption,” She paused, the umbrella handle still in her hand. The probability is slim, but she said it anyway “Unless it’s Sherlock Holmes.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” And with that, she fixed her collar and opened the laptop by the desk. A familiar initial M plastered on the screen, and for a long minute, she thought she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t meddle with his legacy, something that never really belong to her. Then the line connected and a greasy hair man stare at her with wide eyes. She snapped out of herself faster than a blink.

“Good afternoon, Mr Blanc. Please refrain yourself from shutting the computer.” A sense of pride swells in her chest when the words came out cold. ‘It’s textbook training’ Mycroft would’ve said. Still, becoming Mycroft Holmes is not an easy task.

“How do you…Who the hell are you?” The man sneered but lucky for Anthea, he stays seated. 

“There’s no need to worry yourself with such irrelevant details. Now that formality is over, let’s talk about your illegal collaboration with the Turkish terrorist.”

4\. 

If you walk past the muddy path of fallen soldier’s grave, and then past the tombstone’s row of great lords and ladies in the Victorian age, under the green tree where the infamous Sherlock Holmes fake grave once was, is now replaced by a similar black headstone - no name, no flowers.

You would think it was neglected and deserted without visitors, if not for the new low tar cigarette that find itself on top of the headstone every two weeks. 

You would think this dead man is insignificant, because the lack of title and recognition words.

You’re extremely wrong, because he was anything but unimportant. He was everything.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Sorry for the weird fourth wall at the end, sentiments got the best of me XP.


End file.
